


High lonesome, no pity boy

by campholmes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-War, Smoking, i just wanted draco to fall in love with kim deal, mid-twenties professorage, short but sweet and self-serving, young men at hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campholmes/pseuds/campholmes
Summary: Draco takes another sip of tea. Harry had carried the cup—spelled so as not to spill—all the way down to the dungeons, from his own office.Silly, he thinks now. But Draco is still pleasantly flushed, looking down almost shy at his desk. Harry flexes his fingers.





	High lonesome, no pity boy

**Author's Note:**

> title is from bragging party by the amps. this is my first-ever (published) drarry! hope you enjoy <3
> 
> warnings for hinted-at almost panic attacks and the references to child abuse that come with the territory of this ship!

“Malfoy.”

Harry willfully ignores the feeling of sheer _something_, well. _Everything_, travelling up through his fingers and in a line of fear and more-than-possibly excitement up his arm—settling in the crook of his elbow and then barely missing giving him a spasm to splash the teacup he was setting (peace offering) on Draco’s desk.

He isn’t so sure when he first called Malfoy _Draco_, in his head. Maybe when McGonagall had told him, in her office with the silvery summer sun peering through the window behind her pointed hat. _And I expect nothing_ but _decorum, Harry_. She had begun calling him _Harry_ somewhere between the battle and when he had first seen her, interviewing. Four years ago. She needn’t have worried. Harry is here, isn’t he.

Draco looks up at him from behind long, blond lashes. His eyes are grey-er. Maybe. Harry sniffs, and Draco mirrors him, cautiously lifting the tea to his pink lips, blowing, and sipping. Slowly. Harry doesn’t dare break the eye contact. Draco has more of a jaw. His hair is braided down his back.

It is a cold mid August. Harry is here for a peace offering. He scratches his neck, below the line of his (cautious) beard, where his sweater is itching him. He has weeks, before the students come, and he finally breaks the loaded connection with Draco’s deep _everything-ness_ to confirm that yes, he is scribbling away at January lesson plans.

Harry shifts, coughs. Draco blinks, and then gestures, silently, one flat, long, white hand to the chair across from him. The desk between them. Harry sits. He thinks about, well, a dark corridor, sixteen, Draco’s muffled insistence. He thinks, _Merlin, what we’ve been through—and still now so young_. So much like his parents. Dead with a baby at twenty-one. Harry and Draco, something like twenty-six years later, teaching children what Harry often wishes they would never have to know.

Draco continues to write. His handwriting is long, but cramped. Harry watches his hand move across the page. Wide knuckles to match those long fingers. The top of Draco’s head, silver, bobbing a bit as he considers. 

Finally, raising his head and setting his quill aside. Eyes back to Harry’s.

“What can I help you with, Potter?”

Harry shifts uncomfortably. He’s incredibly sad, all of a sudden. Hermione says he is prone to depressive episodes. Probably. He feels his cheeks heat as tears come to his eyes, unbidden. He blinks, swallows.

“Nothing. I’m here to welcome you to the team.”

Draco studies him. His face is clear of past emotion, Harry feels a gratitude for him that catches him off guard. Erases his almost-tears.

“Thank you,” Draco says. Stilted. Harry nods. The Draco knocking on his door in midwinter six stretching years ago, tears frozen to his cheeks, to ask for Harry to accept his well-rehearsed apology and thanks, is a million miles away. Draco is older and has broader shoulders, like Harry has filled out from Hogwarts feasts.

“I—”

Harry stops himself. Draco raises soft eyebrows and possibly a corner of his mouth in question. Harry snorts, and all of it is broken to pieces, and something cracks inside of Harry’s chest like everything outside of him has gone right into place. It is an odd feeling, but not uncomfortable. Draco’s lips pull into the smallest smile. His cheeks are going pink. Harry watches as he laughs harder, deep in his belly, Draco’s hands as they twist on his desk and are then moved to his lap.

Harry laughs for so long that eventually his stomach is aching pleasantly, and Draco is running one impatient hand through a flyaway section of hair at his temple. He is all red, once Harry catches his breath. Harry cannot stop looking at him.

“I’m sorry—it’s just—”

“I know—”

“Who would have thought.” Harry does his best to calm himself. Draco grins, like he can’t help himself.

“I certainly wouldn’t have.”

Harry nods. Draco takes another sip of tea. Harry had carried the cup—spelled so as not to spill—all the way down to the dungeons, from his own office. _Silly_, he thinks now. But Draco is still pleasantly flushed, looking down almost shy at his desk. Harry flexes his fingers.

“You know, I. You could make yourself useful?” Draco’s mood has shifted, it seems. His eyes are sparkling with something Harry does not want to bother defining. He wants to lean into it, this new feeling. “I have piles of books I want shelved, just there—” he gestures, “... and they won’t do it themselves. Alphabetical-by-subject, Potter.”

Harry laughs again, stands, and goes about the spellwork to configure Draco’s books.

—

Harry finds himself in Draco’s office more often than he had expected himself to, after that. More often than even McGonagall had expected him to, he thinks, when she gives the two of them seated together at dinner the Thursday after Draco’s arrival a sideways glance.

Harry doesn’t know. It’s just easy to talk to Draco. Not simple, _easy_, like all their lives they’ve known each other. And they have. He knows Draco in a way that he will never know Sinistra, or Flitwick, will never know Sprout, who is set to retire after this one last year. Conversations with Draco are sometimes minefields, rife with bombs of _my aunt_, or _Hermione_, period. But they know each other’s personalities, and are surprised by each other sometimes.

It is a Friday when Harry finds himself in short sleeves and denim cutoffs, a final wave of heat before fall comes tumbling to the grounds of the castle. When he knocks on Draco’s office door in the late morning, he finds Draco’s fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist— cold and smooth, tickling the hair there— and lifting his arm to inspect every last one of his tattoos. It makes Harry laugh again, and he realizes, with Draco’s face squeezed in shameless curiosity, that he hasn’t laughed this hard this many times in months.

“What? Potter, what in the bloody hell are these?” Harry snorts, sticks a hand in his hair. Bad habit, leaves him disheveled even further than he is upon waking by the end of most days. “Potter—”

“_Malfoy_, I like them. I thought, one, for Sirius—”

Draco drops his arm unceremoniously. 

“No! It’s okay. Listen—listen to me. I thought one for Sirius, and then one for Teddy, because he asked me to, and then. It’s like I blinked, and now I’m full of them.”

Draco sniffs, long. Harry lifts both arms again for him to see. Another offering. Draco’s fingers go to his inner tricep, tracing the sketched snitch, there. _Draco was a seeker, too_, Harry’s mind supplies. As if Harry wasn’t aware.

“Well, Potter.” Harry waits for more, but Draco is still prodding at his skin. Goosebumps break out over Harry’s forearms, and Draco looks down at his face. “Fascinating.”

Harry laughs again. He props his hip against the door. Draco is scanning his face, eyes skipping over his lips. Draco is wearing his usual robes. The cooling charms in his office have been cranked up. Harry wants to joke that he can see his breath. And then Draco is pulling away, to his desk.

“Would you like a biscuit, Potter?” His words are clipped, like he is stopping himself from saying another thing.

“Sure,” Harry offers. Draco nods, slips the tin under his arm. Harry raises his brows at him.

“I thought we’d take them outside,” Draco says. It isn’t a question. Harry grins.

—

Harry finds that he likes it, how he must look with Draco.

Not out loud, but in his most private thoughts, in the shower in his rooms or when he and Draco are making their way to the quidditch pitch to sit in the stands and snack on crackers and cheese. He thinks, _what a pair we must be_, when they sit beside each other at dinner. Harry takes breakfast from the elves in his rooms. He usually scrounges something for lunch. He wonders if Draco eats these meals with everyone else. Despite everything, he still finds himself wondering about Draco. He supposes that he is making up for five years without a thought about him. He’ll always be obsessed. And Draco isn’t helping it now, with his long black robes and long blond hair and all of his grace and height beside Harry, who is filled out and shorter and sometimes accidentally brushes his brown skin against Draco’s most pale wrist. Accidents happen. Draco has fine blond hair all up his arms.

He thinks that they match, in a way. Their childhoods exact opposites, Draco the center of his parents world and Harry parsing through his loneliness and fear in weekly appointments with Ainslie, the only therapist who hadn’t looked at Harry in bare awe in his first session. But then something of the same. Children raised for the slaughter. Draco’s mouth forms a thin line when Harry leaves him to chat with Dumbledore’s portrait. 

Being with Draco feels like the war was mere days ago, sometimes. And then, others, like it never happened. Harry comes into Draco’s office on the Saturday two weeks before classes and Draco is playing The Breeders at top volume, silenced behind his door to spill out into the corridor when he lets Harry in. Harry laughs and laughs while Draco drinks brandy and watches him collapse to the ground, _motherhood means mental freeze_.

Harry pries and pries, digs through Draco’s Muggle music collection and makes him play Harry his favorites. Draco plays him _Dedicated_ by The Amps three times in a row, eyes closed. Harry stuffs down his enchanted giggles and orders Draco every Nirvana album when he gets back to his bedroom. When he gets them, Draco makes a huff about the lack of Kim Deal. He takes them from Harry delicately, though.

Draco likes Hole better than Nirvana. Harry wants to touch him. Draco plays _So Tonight That I Might See_ when they are in his office drinking late into the night and purposefully not remembering.

—

It’s all the Mazzy Star, Harry tells himself. It’s all that romance and pain that spills out of Draco’s complicated-spellwork speakers. All of that bass and roaming melody. All of it. On that velvet green couch with the embroidered pillows. It’s why Harry is lying in his bed staring at the ceiling, so like the one in the Gryffindor common room. He takes his glasses off, rubs over his face. He could go lie in the sun, he thinks, and then maybe he would stop considering Draco like _miles crashing me by_. Or maybe he would feel Draco in it, warm and all over him. Okay. He sits up, takes his broom to the pitch in the warm.

He is among the blue when he knows, instinctively, that Draco is flying up to him. Harry hovers in waiting. His heart pounding in his fingertips.

“What’re you doing, bad boy?” Draco has laughter in his sharp teasing, and Harry melts from the inside out. Draco has gotten over his _Sirius_ thing, has taken to making fun of Harry for trying to emanate his godfather. Harry thinks he’s just being himself, but he lets Draco say it—it feels good to be compared to the only family he’s ever truly known. His tattooed, stringy, long-haired, sharp-witted, effortlessly caring godfather. Harry hopes he is even half of him. Draco flies around him in circles.

“Harry, have you heard The Cure? Luna sent me—” Harry cuts him off by flying straight past him, taking off towards the castle. Draco squawks, comes after him immediately. Draco was never the best at quidditch, but he and Harry were certainly a match. They twist around each other and Harry feels it high in his chest, like he’s twelve years old. And then, Draco’s hand is tight around his arm, and Harry understands, guides them down slowly, to the grass so green.

“I think… I think I forgot,” Draco breathes. He’s panting, his face grey. Harry puts a palm to his cheek, and only knows he is doing so when he sees it there. “I.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t, well, I didn’t mean for you to join me.”

But Draco’s breath isn’t slowing, and he looks at Harry with wild eyes. Harry strokes up and down his back, breathing hot onto Draco’s cheek. Draco works to match Harry’s slow rhythm.

“It’s all right. Draco.”

There is something hot and wet on Harry’s cheekbone. Draco chokes a sob, and Harry cannot help himself from taking him up tighter in his arms. He smells like fresh air, and fear, and his fingers digging into Harry’s neck are reminiscent of the time he had Harry jokingly waltzing to Sonic Youth.

It was seeing Harry’s head in front of him, in the air, the breeze against Draco’s ears making a rushing sound, like fire, and everything coming crashing then in his chest, Draco says. And all he could do was reach for Harry. 

He spends the afternoon, over tiny sandwiches and tea, shaking and going over this moment with Harry beside him. Harry tells him, _it’s only normal_, and _of course it’s hard to remember_. And it is so strange, for them to be together and going over that time, in the very castle, so many years later. Draco is baffled how the memory could be pushed far down enough that he ended up only remembering once he was far in the air, and Harry is caught up in the feeling of reassuring him.

_What a pair we must make_, his mind supplies again.

“You called me Draco,” he says. Harry puts on Surfer Rosa. Draco had called him _Harry_ first.

—

The first incident happens on a day blessedly still in the wait-time before the start of the school year. Draco is finishing yet another lesson plan, he is meticulously prepared in ways that Harry knows he will never be, they are in Harry’s office with the big windows, and Harry is barefoot on his red armchair.

A wave of nausea, because Draco has cut his hair and suddenly Harry is at Malfoy Manor, and he reaches for something, anything, but finds nothing. He is vomiting on the floor on his hurried way out the door, and Draco’s fingers are on his shoulder but Harry pushes him away, with all the force of his strength and magic, too. 

Draco’s body knocks Harry’s bookshelf down. Harry cannot even hear the crash, his ears are ringing. He seems dazed, there on the floor, looking up at Harry in confusion but also, somehow, deep understanding and nonjudgement, as if he has been expecting this from the beginning. Harry goes into his rooms and locks the door behind him. Draco knocks, for ten minutes, muffled questions behind the door, until Harry knows he has left.

He showers, head pounding, brushes the sour out of his teeth while staring himself down in the mirror. His cheeks are less cut than they were not four years ago, before the letter from McGonagall. His hair is longer, his beard ages him. He stares at his scars: his forehead, his chest, his hand. Everywhere else he’s been sliced open. He feels all of sixteen. Everything from then, his years at Hogwarts, is either too-bright of a memory, sharp and hot and terrible, or is clouded over with a fog of nothing. Draco is vivid, real, before him still a child, sometimes. He wonders if Draco sees him the same.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispers it to Draco, lips nearly brushing his ear, at the table in the Great Hall. He ignores McGonagall’s eyes. He is starving from not eating lunch, from lifting his bookshelf and repairing it and re-stacking everything. He could feel Draco’s magic against the side of it, warm and now-familiar. Like when he would hold Draco’s wand.

Draco nods, and Harry looks into his eyes when he pulls away. They are grave, wise. Knowing.

—

And nothing happens, for days. For more than a week, then, as Draco plays Harry _The Head On The Door_ and they shit-talk Binns in his dungeon office. Draco has finished with his lesson plans. He tells Harry about how he came about coming back to teach, his potions apprenticeship and McGonagall’s gentle coaxing of him back to the school.

“And you, well. You were a part of it, why I thought I would be alright coming back,” Draco says. Harry smirks.

“Because I’m the Chosen One?”

“Because you’re the Boy Who Lived. I thought, well, Harry will certainly have a complex about making certain everyone treats me with respect,” Draco smiles. He’s joking, eyes flashing with a darling evil Harry has come to know as being for him only.

“You absolute fuck,” Harry laughs.

“You’re a hopeless case, Potter. You can’t help yourself from saving people left and right. It’s only right that I take advantage of that. If you’re offering.” Draco sniffs, and looks down his nose at Harry. It’s so reminiscent of him at age eleven that Harry barks a surprised cough. Something pings in his chest.

“I suppose you can mooch off me,” he says. Draco flushes in the candlelight. “Hey—”

“Yes, Harry?” They’ve taken to first names only when they are certainly not thinking about it.

“What d’you think about coming to the Three Broomsticks with me, some night this week? I usually meet Ron n’ Hermione there, in the days before classes start, and I—”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Draco cuts him off. Harry’s heart sinks. His pale hands have gone back to rearranging the papers on his desk he had just finished with. He’s a busybody, always talking or moving, filled to the brim with nerves. Harry adores it. He perishes the thought.

“But—”

“No, Potter. I may welcome you into my personal space more often than not, lately, but I do know where I am and am not welcome, otherwise. There is not a chance in hell that Weasley or Granger would ever want to speak to me, let alone at one of your precious shared pub nights.”

Harry sighs. Chooses his next words carefully. Sometimes speaking with Draco is painstakingly, quietly, rehearsed. It is better than the both of them threatening to kill each other.

“Draco, I’ve already asked them. They’re happy to invite you along. It’s a celebration of the school year, that it’s starting up. We want you there.”

“Harry. Harry. Sometimes, I swear, you are so silly. And forgetful. Willingly forgetful. I cannot forget. I cannot forget any of it, because _I was wrong!_” Draco shrieks the last part, and it stakes ice through Harry’s heart. “I’m not allowed to forget like you. When you forget, it’s healing, and when I forget…”

Harry scoffs at him, waves his hand in dismissal. Draco’s eyes follow his arm suspiciously.

“I don’t care about your feeling responsible, Draco. I don’t care. I want you there, and I deserve to be selfish. You’re my friend. You’re fucked if you think otherwise.”

Draco’s face changes into something, something open and forlorn and longing. His forehead goes into little lines. Harry smiles.

“I know that you apologized to them, too. It’s time to move along, then, and come have a drink with us.”

Draco says nothing for a long while. He stares at Harry, unblinking. He is so expressive, Harry wants to pick him up and carry him around just to see what his face and elbows would do. Harry can see the journey he takes before acquiescing. Not without shelving a great burden of anxiety and disbelief.

“All right.”

Harry laughs at him, and pulls him up into a hug without thinking.

—

Months go by before anything changes.

Harry has taken to wearing Sirius’ leather jacket over his sweaters and scarves, has grown his beard and hair out a bit with the oncoming winter. He sees Draco’s sweeping looks over him, he sees those grey eyes fixating on his chin. 

The kids love Draco, despite being terrified of him. Harry loves to watch them give their two professors a wide berth when they make their way to the Three Broomsticks on Hogsmeade weekends. Harry wears Doc Martens boots Hermione had gifted him for Christmas five years ago in the snow, never minding how little they really do to warm his toes. Draco wears all of the same. Pointed leather shoes charmed to repel the cold. But stares at Harry’s feet, too. 

In the winter, Draco wears black knit sweaters and black Muggle jeans rolled up at the cuff beneath his robes.

His hair is growing out a bit at the top, but he has kept the sides short to his head. He sits grading on the couch as Harry takes his desk, some nights. Draco pours Harry shots of Firewhiskey at the small bar in his office, hands them to him with a look. Harry gives him the look right back.

Draco still looks impossibly young, sometimes. Different, young in a different way, but young. And fresh, and pink. Harry stares him down late into the winter nights. He wants to eat him and his charming music taste alive.

Winter at Hogwarts has never lost its magic. Harry stares out the window at snowball fights and students trudging to class and Draco scratches his scalp with the tip of his wand. They get into an explosive argument about Harry’s insistence on visiting Dumbledore’s portrait multiple days a week, and Harry feels bruised physically, in the chest area. Like he can feel the ache of the locket, still.

Draco looks lovely in the snow. Snowflakes look like sparkles in his hair, on his scarf. His cheeks, nose, fingertips, and ears turn a deep, sweet red. Harry likes to watch him best when he comes in from outside, takes off his black scarf and fur hat. His long limbs are graceful even with heavy robes and wool draping them. Harry knows that Draco sees him looking, but he does nothing. Draco sometimes pushes out his lips when he is writing in red ink on a student’s paper, quirks his right eyebrow. Harry is charmed by him.

Eventually, Harry can pull his hair up into a bun at the back of his head. It makes Draco look at him quizzically, almost like something, on a Friday, but then Harry leaves for a weekend with Teddy, and on Monday it seems to all be forgotten.

They start to take lunch together, once the both of them realize that they have the same lunch hour free. Draco mostly grades, and Harry reads. It’s sweet. Draco sometimes hums in an interested, impressed way at what Harry is reading. It makes Harry roll his eyes and flick him off.

One evening, on the walk back from Hogsmeade, Draco slips his hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow, and Harry lifts his forearm to support it without thinking. The trees around them are groaning with recent snowfall, and the shrieks and laughter of the students behind them has Harry’s stomach warm.

Draco ducks to avoid a low-hanging branch, and his chin ends up sharply on Harry’s shoulder. Harry can feel his fingers, then, digging around in Harry’s jacket pocket for his cigarettes. He grunts, lets Draco push a cig in his mouth and light it with a flick of his fingers. And then he is leaning into Harry to light his own against it. Harry huffs a big breath of air and Draco’s eyelashes flutter. He feels very young and carefree, all of a sudden. Like he’s in a world he had thought he would never have. Draco blushes fiercely. Harry laughs out smoke at him. His hand on Harry’s arm doesn’t move.

“You know, smoking will kill you. It’s a filthy Muggle habit,” Draco says matter-of-factly. “I’m not saying I _don’t_ smoke, but I am saying that lung cancer wouldn’t be such a good look on the Saviour of our Wizarding World.”

Harry snorts, pats the top of Draco’s hand. He strides ahead a few paces, and then turns to face Draco.

“Wouldn’t be a good look on you either, you’re already so pale,” he says. He brings his free hand to Draco’s pink cheek. Which darkens redder. He marvels at how Draco warms under his touch.

“That’s all right,” Draco says. Harry has a feeling he’s no longer talking about the cigarettes. Draco scratches the inside of his elbow. Leather smooth as butter on his gentle fingertips, well-manicured nails.

When they are nearly to the castle, Draco stops to stare out at the snow, and Harry grips his delicate, sharp jaw in his hand that looks so large on his face and kisses him hard. Draco chokes into his mouth, but then immediately opens those pink lips and pushes that hot tongue Harry’s always wanted to touch against Harry’s.

“Oh,” Draco says, pleasantly, when they’ve separated. “Oh.”

Harry laughs. Draco looks positively taken aback. Harry pinches his sharp Roman nose. Draco’s lips curve downwards, but Harry knows the bashful joy in his eyes. He can’t stop grinning, not when they pass McGonagall in the hall and she looks disapprovingly at their linked arms, not when Draco tries to push him onwards when they stop at his office door.

“I’m coming inside,” Harry says. His voice feels like gravel, like he hasn’t spoken in weeks. He wants to hear it mixing with Draco’s tenor.

“I—alright,” Draco says. Harry’s heart comes up into his throat.

Draco locks the door as Harry drops his jacket and scarf on the floor. For a flash of a second, he can hear Sirius laughing at him and the predicament he’s found himself in—_Corrupting a Malfoy? Bang-up job, mate! Keep the jacket on_, and laughs at the idea. He pulls off his latest Weasley sweater and leaves it on the velvet couch, and then turns to face Draco. The fire in the office grows by virtue of the two of them returning, and the candles light. Draco has pressed himself up against the door, hands flat against the stone walls. Harry grins, looks through his eyelashes.

Draco is panting, and Harry stalks over to him—all he can think to do, because Draco is so skinny and needing of him, and Harry is so desperate for a piece of him, always. Draco makes like he is stuck to the door with a sticking charm, but then tears himself away and plasters himself against Harry. Warm and wet from the snowflakes in his hair and on his shoulders.

“Oh, you,” Harry sighs. Draco whines, and kisses him hotly. “You just…”

“I know, I know,” Draco mumbles. His fingers brush freezing to Harry’s stomach, bringing a gasp out of the bottom of his belly where he has touched him. “I know. I need you, Harry.”

Harry’s groan breaks into nothingness, and then Draco is pulling his unbelievably hard cock out of his pants and boxers and lubing him up wandlessly—and Harry doesn’t breathe the whole time that Draco jerks him off slowly. Harry is still in his jeans and his boots. Draco is all done up in everything. And then Harry comes all over him, between the two of them, onto his white t-shirt and Draco’s long black robes. Draco makes an aborted, desperate sound, cut off by Harry’s mouth.

Harry kisses him and kisses him until he can’t see anymore as he tries his damndest to unbutton Draco’s impossible robes. _Fuck him_, Harry thinks, _fuck him for doing himself up so tight when he knows I want to get at him underneath all of it_. But Draco bites his bottom lip too hard to not be making a point, and when Harry obediently backs up from him Draco flicks his wand and all of the buttons are undone. Harry strokes a hand beneath Draco’s black sweater, the soft soft fabric of the shirt beneath catching on his dry fingertips. And then, the hot of Draco’s stomach. Hard and ridged, like Harry always knew it would be. Skinny and ripped, tiny and just for Harry. His fingers reach beneath the waist of Draco’s pants.

Draco is very impatient with the whole thing, kissing at Harry’s adam’s apple and pinching his sides, so much so that he rips his fly down and clasps his hand around Harry’s to yank his underwear down and put his fingers to his hot cock.

“Mmm, yes, Harry, finally. Oh, I’ve waited—” Harry groans at Draco’s little comments, kisses him to shut him up and strokes him just three times before he comes.

“Oh my god, so hot. Draco,” Harry says into his mouth. Draco nods, kissing him. And then, they’re laughing at all of it, standing up against the door. Draco’s hand on the doorframe. Harry cups his chin again, just looks at his eyes and his lashes and those pink cheeks. He taps a finger on his bitten lips. Draco and his music taste, and how he writes, and his little ass in his desk chair, his long robes and his pretty cock and all of that _flush_ all the way down him. Harry is inconsolable. Draco and how he makes Hermione laugh, against all odds, Draco and how he flusters Ron with his quick hands poking Harry’s cheeks.

“You,” Harry says. He isn’t sure what he means.

“You too,” Draco says, nods gravely back at him.


End file.
